


Open Your Eyes

by yuffiehighwind



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Between Episodes, Between Seasons/Series, Explicit Language, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Series, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: Warren’s life in fragments. Unfortunately, he doesn’t wake up at the end of it.Originally written in February 2003.





	Open Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of an AU, in which Warren went to Sunnydale High (and Elementary) and met Andrew in high school. Warren grew up in a different city in canon.
> 
> This is dated February 2003, which was while the 7th and final season of BTVS was still airing. I was a senior in high school. Apparently I found this on my computer and posted it to my Tumblr blog in 2013, because I just found it a second time, and now I'm posting it on AO3 in 2019. Because why the hell not?

Spanish foreign films had to go. Seriously. Along with bottles of Jack Daniels and Tom Cruise’s marriage.   
  
The young man currently sprawled face-down across his mother’s basement couch, vaguely aware of another body half on top of him and struggling to ignore this fact, had this on his mind. Watching  _Abre Los Ojos_  half-cocked at 3 A.M. with your best friend? Whose bad idea was that?   
  
Oh yeah. It was his.   
  
Could he even call the body he was shoving onto the floor his “best friend?” Tough question. Did he even have the right? Did anything make sense anymore? Did Penelope Cruz wear a bra? Was taking over Sunnydale really that good an idea? Did fooling around with another guy really mean you were…   
  
Fuck it. He was in college, after all.   
  
No, scratch that, he’d dropped out to be an evil supervillain. And look how splendidly that was turning out!   
  
“Ouch! Warrennnnnn…"   
  
Sleeping beauty awoke. A reddish mess of hair poked up over the side of the couch.   
  
"What time is it?"   
  
Warren let out an exasperated sigh and glanced over at the clock.   
  
"Ten A.M. Get up."   
  
Rubbing his forehead, the boy stumbled to his feet and toppled on top of Warren again.   
  
"Did you have to throw me on the floor?"   
  
Shove. No dice. Imitating his whine, he replied, "Did you have to fall asleep on top of me?"   
  
The boy pouted. His lower lip stuck out in such a way that Warren had the subtle inclination to lick it. Baaaaad thoughts…   
  
"You were more than fine with it last night.” Pause. “Ugh…My head hurts.” He looked at the bottle on the floor. “Figures."   
  
Last night, last night. Oh, right, Penelope Cruz, subtitles, too much to drink, kisses and TV static…   
  
Warren stood up and tried not to fall over too. He had a more than uncomfortable tightness in his brain which could only mean one thing.   
  
"We’re hung over, Andrew. A little coffee and all will be right as rain.” He kicked the bottle across the floor and ignored with all his ignoring ability that his pants were undone.   
  
TV static, TV static, soft warm lips trailing across his skin down to…   
  
Zipping up and buckling his belt, he coughed, repeating, “Coffee sounds like a real good idea right about now."   
  
Andrew sat on the couch, arms crossed, and watched his friend fidget.   
  
"Do you remember anything?"   
  
Warren whirled around but wouldn’t meet the boy’s gaze. He ran his fingers through his hair.   
  
"Of course I remember.” God, could he remember. He was trying to forget. He tried not to notice the boy bite his lips. Eyes had to stay away from the whole lip area…   
  
“Yeah?"   
  
"And then…"   
  
"Uh-huh."   
  
"And you…"   
  
"Right."   
  
"So…"   
  
"Coffee."   


 

* * *

  
  
Other people were good. Other people would alleviate the tension. Other people like, say, the cashiers at the Dunkin Donuts down the street. Other people like, say, not the people at the next table.   
  
They were two girls who had gone to school with Warren and Andrew who would perpetually hang around next to the vending machines at lunch. They were constantly smirking and making comments, and were always trying to set them up.   
  
Warren had never known their names. He wasn’t too sure they had names or if they were actually minions sent by God or the Devil to irritate and confuse him everyday 5th period for four years. All he knew was he had tried to block them out of his mind, or at least what they used to say.   
  
The two girls were never cold or cruel like the jocks and cheerleaders or naturally offensive like the stoners or preps. They seemed genuinely concerned, or rather, nosy and were a constant reminder of the fact that, well, Andrew doted on him like a fucking puppy.   
  
Not that Andrew wasn’t a constant reminder in himself, but he and Warren had gotten a system of denial going that the twins’ moving to Sunnydale and having the same lunch period as them the second semester of senior year completely fucked up.   
  
"Oh, wow, Marie, look."   
  
"Sharley, what is it?"   
  
"Marie, it’s Andrew Wells and Warren Meers."   
  
"Oh, wow, Sharley, really?"   
  
"Yeah."   
  
"Hi, Warren!"   
  
"Hi, Andrew!"   
  
"My, you two look like you just woke up."   
  
"Coffee,” was Andrew’s reply. Warren could only stare in shocked and suppress groans.   
  
“A coffee date, this early?"   
  
"It could mean only one thing, Sharley."   
  
"Yeah, but it’s been years."   
  
"So what? Ask them."   
  
"No, you."   
  
"No, you."   
  
"No, you."   
  
"Ask us what?"   
  
Thank that sweet, sweet boy for shutting the girls up. Wait. Andrew? Sweet? Add another pack of sugar and stir.   
  
"Are you two…?"   
  
"I mean, Marie and I always wondered…"   
  
"Did you ever…?"   
  
"She means, have you ever…?"   
  
So. Sick. Of. This. Gotta shut the bitches up. Lifelong quest of the vending machine twins fulfilled. Incoherent inner voice grumbling.   
  
In a loud, chipper voice, Warren finished, "Fucked? Yes, many a time. Last night, in fact."   
  
Shut them right up. The girls exchanged wide-eyed glances and turned to Andrew, who smiled sheepishly and sipped his coffee. The girls smiled at him in return, got up, and left, giggling. Andrew flashed the same look at Warren who just gave up and drank his goddamn coffee. A long awkward silence later…   
  
"We’re never speaking of this ever again."   
  
Expecting the kicked puppy look Andrew was so adept at, Warren instead received a small tight smile and the cheeky reply, "That’s what you said last time." 

 

* * *

  
  
Buzz. Whirr. Crackle crackle snap crackle whir buzz.   
  
Is this what creating life is like?   
  
Now he can step back and say, "I made this. Me. With my own two hands. I made this."   
  
Hummmmm. Bzzt. Bzzt. Click.   
  
"Hel. lo. I. am. your. girl. friend. Ap. ril."   
  
"Hello, April. I’m your boyfriend, Warren. I made you."   
  
"I. can. not. see. you. War. ren."   
  
Figures.   
  
"Open your eyes."   


 

* * *

  
  
Read out upon readout and green infrared scanning taken - borrowed - from some of the best, most advanced technological companies in the world. File opens into other files and April reads these, smiling blankly.   
  
Warren is her boyfriend. She is Warren’s girlfriend. She lives to make Warren happy. She loves Warren.   
  
Warren is scared. Amazed and awed by his creation but still scared. What has he done?   
  
Another part of him tells him to shut the fuck up. What he’s done is made the ultimate in recent technology - a hottie sexbot with all the programming and equipment in her to keep him satisfied until the end of time. Hours, days, weeks, months,  _years_  poured into his creation, which has the small glitch and hugely wonderful detail of loving him unconditionally.   
  
He finished her in April, so that’s what he named her. April. Beautiful like the Spring. Sure, her skin was cold and her eyes blank and her face had three expressions, but everything else…well, she was a robot that knew every little trick to get him hot. What was wrong about that?   
  
"I. love. you. War. ren. You. are. the. best. boy. friend. a. girl. could. have."   
  
At first, her voice was a bit stilted. He’d fix it.   
  
Her laugh was too forced. He’d tweak it.   
  
She couldn’t really smile. Or giggle. Or chew on her lip. Or pout. Or even look like a kicked puppy when she lost at Tekken, ‘cause really, what girlfriend wouldn’t let a guy win at Tekken? Even a little bit?   
  
She could do anything but the things that really made Warren go. He programmed her to strip if he asked. Or participate in any number of sex games. Or play Scrabble. Or…or anything. Except the things that really, in the end, made him feel, made him interested or intrigued, or even pissed off. When he touched her, she didn’t squirm, or fidget, or say, "Hey, maybe this isn’t a good idea” and he’d never respond, “Sure it is” and she’d never argue, “But your Mom’s, like, upstairs” and he’d never have to correct, “Yeah, but she’s asleep,” and then he’d never fidget and say, “Well, I don’t wanna wake her up” and…   
  
When pronouns got confusing, Warren would go home, turn April on, and forget. Forget, forget, forget. He’d let himself fall into that world where he had a perfect job, a perfect girlfriend, and a perfect life, and then wake up and remember that none of that was true. Remember all the things he’d left back in Sunnydale. Remember high school and remember late nights in his mother’s basement playing Tekken…   
  
Realize perfection wasn’t something he wanted.   


 

* * *

  
  
She wasn’t perfection. She was absolute fucking flaw on feet. She was tall, even too tall, and constantly had her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Ripped blue jeans and gray blouse with the top button undone. Didn’t bother tucking the shirttails in because what was the point? Following her sister Lexie’s example and being rebellious. Or rather, attempting to. Just a tiny bit.   
  
She was in the honors program, but that was forgivable, because she couldn’t get a handle on math. In walked Warren Meers, computer programmer extraordinaire, to tutor her. Score.   
  
She wasn’t perfect. She had this funny little habit of brushing her hair back behind her ear. Strands of hair always came out of her ponytail and fell in her face. Warren thought it was cute. He thought a lot of things she did were cute, like the way she scrunched her nose when she laughed and nibbled on her fingernails when she was bored. And when she was pissed her nostrils would flare and her lips would tighten.   
  
She could punch like a motherfucker. Her temper was quick and her envy greener than the sea.   
  
When she was with him she’d smile like she knew something he didn’t. When she was  _with_  him, her eyes would close all but just a little and she was just…far from perfect. And he loved her more than anything.   
  
She wasn’t anything like April or…   
  
She wasn’t like anyone.   


 

* * *

  
  
“What’s your name? Just so, ya know, when I’m tutoring you, I don’t just say, 'Hey you.’"   
  
Somehow that came out wrong.   
  
"Heh heh. You’re funny. The name’s Katrina. Katrina Silber."   
  
"So, Katrina, uh, where are you from?"   
  
"Sunnydale."   
  
"Wow, me too. Weird we didn’t run into each other."   
  
"Oh, I went to a private school out of town. Good thing, I guess, since the high school blew up and all."   
  
Warren laughed, then realized she had been serious. He coughed uncomfortably.   
  
"It’s alright,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “It is kinda like something out of a TV show, that town."   
  
Warren smiled. He willed himself to say something witty, endearing, charming. Be charming!   
  
"Yeah."   
  
Fuck.   
  
Katrina chuckled, closing her eyes. "You’re so cute when you smile."   


* * *

  
  
Ring, ring.   
  
"Pick up."   
  
Ring, ring.   
  
"Pick up, damn it."   
  
Ring, ring.   
  
"Should’ve never got her caller ID."   
  
Ring. "Trina, I thought you’d never…"   
  
"Stop calling me, Warren."   
  
"Trina, we need to talk."   
  
"There is nothing left to talk about."   
  
"But you don’t understand!"   
  
"I understand perfectly. You had that…that thing hidden from me all along. A sexbot, Warren! I don’t want anything to do with someone who builds a sexbot."   
  
"But I wasn’t going to stay with her…it. I love you!"   
  
"Goodbye, Warren."   
  
Click.   
  
Ring, ring.   
  
"Pick up!"   
  
Ring. "The number you have dialed will not connect. Pl…"   
  
Click.   
  
"She blocked my number."   
  
Foot tapping.   
  
Tap tap, tap tap.   
  
Ring, ring.   
  
Ring. Rushing to grab the phone. "Katrina?!"   
  
"Uhm…Warren?"   
  
Andrew.   
  
"Oh. Hi…uh…Andrew."   
  
"Hi! It's…it’s, er…it’s b- b-been a while, huh?"   
  
Ever the nasally nervous Andrew.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
Awkward silence.   
  
"Jonathan told me Katrina dumped you."   
  
Short bastard.   
  
"Yeah."   
  
More silence.   
  
"Uh…want some company?"   
  
April’s batteries ran out.   
  
"I really want to be alone right now."   
  
Bottle of aspirin looking pretty good.   
  
"Ya sure? 'Cause I could…cheer you up."   
  
Dubious of the sound of that pause but lonely and needing a good distraction.   
  
"Okay. Come over."   
  
Closes his eyes and tries to forget.   


 

* * *

  
  
"Open your eyes."   
  
Looking up, seeing a smiling face and feeling a warm body next to him for the first time in…forever?   
  
"Hey."   
  
Blink.   
  
Voice husky. "Hey."   
  
Looking around. Bedroom colors and the basement must be lonely from disuse.   
  
"What time is it?"   
  
Reddish blonde mess of hair picks up off his chest to look over at the clock.   
  
"About ten A.M."   
  
He smiles like he knows something Warren doesn’t. Reminds him of Katrina.   
  
Forget.   
  
Reddish blonde hair settles back down, tangles in less-than-attractive brown mess of chest and doesn’t mind one bit. Listens to Warren’s heart beat. Too strange.   
  
Shove.   
  
"Gotta get up. It’s late."   
  
Suppressed puppy eyes. "Coffee?"   
  
Thought runs through Warren’s head that they might run into the twins. Not likely. Girls got their wish.   
  
"Shower."   
  
Warren gets up, displacing Andrew to the end of the bed, sheets tangled and an inviting thigh still visible. Closes his eyes and opens them to get rid of the sleep and notices the calendar’s off by two months. Warren wonders if he’s in a time warp back to high school and the damn nosy twins and the damn Tekken and the damn late nights and not having a car.   
  
After AOL booted him off for the twentieth time, he would walk to Jonathan’s house and throw rocks at the boy’s window. Jonathan would peer out and holler at him to go away. He’d then go to Andrew’s, repeating the process, and getting a more positive response. Andrew would climb down the terrace and they’d run off to the 24-hour breakfast place for strawberry waffles and watch infomercials on the TV by the kitchen. Or, more often, they’d go to Warren’s basement. There was a door outside, like the entrance to a tornado shelter, which they’d sneak in through to play video games on mute or steal his mom’s drinks. Stealing Mom’s drinks was what made things interesting. And complicated. And damned confusing. So they stopped. Or, rather, Warren left for college.   
  
Shower and coffee and sneaking out to avoid his mother. Son’s a college dropout? Quiet smoldering shame. Son’s having a secret gay love affair? Heart attack and subsequent death.   
  
No, Warren doesn’t talk to his mother.   
  
To avoid awkward silence, they talk about their plans for Sunnydale. Step one, get rid of the Slayer. Step two, get rich. Step three, get girls. Step three…doesn’t much concern them right now.   
  
Okay, it concerns Warren. It concerns him a lot. He still wonders about Katrina. Wonders as he watches Andrew sleep why the fuck he isn’t someplace else trying to win her back.   
  
They throw rocks at Jonathan’s window, like in high school, and he hurls complaints out his window at them before resigning, as always, to come downstairs and join them, like in high school.   
  
Except now they’re not in high school. Now they’re supervillains, in the Big Leagues, ready to take over the world.   
  
Jonathan and Andrew wander off, talking, as Warren looks in a new magazine at the Quikstop where Jonathan’s grabbing a just as quick breakfast. It’s noon, and it’s time for breakfast. On a Wednesday. It’s college, except without the college part.   
  
Warren’s ears perk up as he hears his name mentioned in the next aisle. Yeah, Jonathan’s complaining again. Evil supervillainy isn’t working out. Warren doesn’t know what’s he’s doing. Andrew defends him. Says nice things. Jonathan insists he must be on something. He wasn’t saying that before. Andrew dodges. Warren’s paying for bagels as Andrew sidles up beside him.   
  
"So, what are we gonna do today?"   
  
Quick thinking. Plans, right?   
  
"Well, what better thing to pass the time than take on the Slayer?"   
  
Jonathan wears a scowl and crosses his arms.   
  
"But not hurt her, right?"   
  
"No, of course not, Sparky.” Pause. “Not too bad.” Smirk on Andrew’s face. Jonathan crumbles, agreeing with a meek, “Okay."   
  
Grabbing the bag of bagels, Warren adds, "How 'bout a running bet, too? See who scores the most points."   
  
He takes out a bagel and bites it, closing his eyes. 

 

* * *

  
  
"What are you thinking about?"   
  
Opens his eyes and there she is, flaw on feet staring at him with that damn knowing smirk again.   
  
Eats it up.   
  
Reaches out to touch that hair, just the tips, 'cause it’s flowing free scrunchie-less and trying to get away. And there’s no way he’s letting her get away.   
  
"Stuff."   
  
Don’t need smart comebacks here in this room. She’s loving him all the same for every little fault. All but the ones she doesn’t know about.   
  
How long has it been since he’s left everything behind?   
  
"Come on, Warren, don’t sell me short tonight.” She cuddles close. He tries not to think about the fact she’s only wearing his Return of the Jedi T-shirt. “Tell me what’s on your mind."   
  
_"Dude,” the voices say. “Can I borrow one of your shirts?” The reply is a muffled, curt “Okay” as his mother’s voice bellows in his head that it’s time for school._    
  
“Just…stuff.” He shakes his head and buries it in her escaping hair. Breathes it in and she doesn’t smell like action figures or Quikstop Fix or strawberry syrup at 3 A.M. and certainly not like polyester strands glued on plastic. She smells like college books and café mocha latés and it  _disconcerts him._  
  
“You never told me much about high school."   
  
She wants to talk and he wants to forget. Disconcerted bat-flapping and soooo don’t want to flashback.   
  
_"Like, I’ll give it back and stuff. Won’t scratch Jabba or nothing. I…I’ll even wash it. But not on fast spin, 'cause the lettering'll…"  
  
"I said okay. Jeez!"   
  
More hollering and he gathers a bag of books deciding breakfast will come from a vending machine this morning._   
  
"Did you ever…go out with anyone in high school? Crush? Anything?” Katrina chuckles and caresses his cheek in a manner she assumes to be reassuring and adds, “I’m not going to get jealous or new-girlfriend-y. I’m just curious about who you are."   
  
_Girls by the vending machine and he slaps on a sexy grin that looks cheesy while they giggle and wave at the boy in his Star Wars shirt who’s hanging back a few steps feigning confusion.  
  
"Ladies.” He’s suave and cool and clicks F-3 for a pack of powdered donuts and all they can do is point and giggle.   
  
“What’s so funny?” Turns around and the boy walks over reluctantly, arms across his chest.   
  
“Andrew’s wearing your shirt."   
  
Neck reddens but response is cool. "Yeah, so what?” They smirk like they know something he doesn’t while really he’s just trying to push it to the back of his mind._   
  
Hand reaches up to cover hers and he responds, “No. I was a real nerd back then. No girl would go out with me."   
  
She puts on a sympathetic face and pecks him on the lips. "I find that hard to believe.” She sighs. “Too bad we didn’t go to the same school. Because I would have."   
  
No girl would go out with him. No girl. Half the story and when gender gets mixed up he just buries himself in Katrina, Katrina, Katrina until it all makes sense again.   


 

* * *

  
  
It’s 3 A.M. and Susan Somers is on the TV selling Thighmasters. Andrew suspects it’s an old tape and Warren loses fifty cents when the chef waddles into the dining room to pop in a tape of Jane Fonda. They play Chinese football and try to make quarters stand on end while sucking the strawberry jam out of their little plastic containers for a cheap sugar rush. The strawberry waffles arrive at 3:15 and both boys are too giddy from sugar packets and jam to concentrate. Syrup is everywhere.   
  
Kicked out of the 24-hour place for the fourth week in a row and throwing rocks at Jonathan’s window is out so running past creepy guys in black with suspiciously sharp teeth to Warren’s house is in short order. Sneak down to the basement and the water won’t work so strawberry syrup is a hassle to get rid of. Fall on the couch high with suppressed laughter and it’s 3:37 and Andrew’s lips look too red and sweet not to taste. It’s 3:58 and Warren’s hands are sticky with strawberry syrup and it’s in Andrew’s hair now. Smells like cheap shampoo and action figures and the following morning the blonde junior needs to borrow his Return of the Jedi T-shirt… 

 

* * *

  
  
Katrina has stopped pressing the issue of past and has started towards the future. Curtains, computers and the like, and she wants to be an engineer too. She is reading a book on robots and wonders aloud if it could ever be possible to build one so like a human that the two are almost indistinguishable. Warren lies through his teeth and explains how it is not currently possible to make a realistic android and likely would not be for centuries. And he knows for sure it is.   


 

* * *

  
  
April sits in Warren’s dorm room examining and reexamining his wallpaper. She proofreads his already flawless homework essays and patiently waits for her boyfriend to return and make sweet passionate love to her. April is happy when Warren makes sweet passionate love to her, because it makes Warren happy. Though lately Warren has not been doing this. Lately Warren has been gone and coming back late at night refusing to let her touch him the way it made him happy for her to touch before. April is concerned Warren is sick. But no, Warren cannot be sick, he is fine. Warren is always fine.   
  
But the last time he lets her touch him he says strange things. One word does not compute.   
  
"Goodbye."   


 

* * *

  
  
"So, you’re leaving for college, huh?"   
  
Packing crates and zipping bags shut.   
  
"Yup."   
  
Packs every last box into his mother’s car and tries to keep casual. Jonathan spent the morning with him packing but Andrew was at his brother’s going-away party, so he had to make his good-byes on short notice that afternoon.   
  
He had silently hoped the boy wouldn’t show up at all.  _Where the fuck is Sparky_ , he wonders, as Andrew finds the ground real interesting to look at.   
  
"Why couldn’t you have gone, to…to Sunnydale University or somethin’, like Jonathan?"   
  
Brow furrows, fingers pinch his nose, and hadn’t he explained this fifty times already?   
  
"I want to major in computer technology. They don’t exactly specialize in it that."   
  
The younger boy leans against the car door, arms crossed. Jeez, is he starting to tear up?   
  
"But why so far away? And…and why now? Leaving me alone here in Sunnyhell?"   
  
Warren rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh.   
  
"You’re hardly alone. Sparky’ll stay and commute."   
  
Andrew looks up, shaking his head.   
  
"It’s not the same."   
  
Slam of the trunk shutting and Andrew jumps. Awkward silence and gap of ten inches not closing any time soon.   
  
The boy looks away and wipes a sleeve past his nose and eyes. Fuck, the kid is crying.   
  
Mom comes out of the house jangling keys and says it’s time to go. Warren nods and walks around to get in the car.   
  
And as they drive away he closes his eyes and tries not to notice Andrew angrily kick a lawn gnome before trudging across the lawn towards home.   


 

* * *

  
  
April’s eyes are always open, watching, and she knows too much, he thinks. Waaaaay too much. And sex with April is getting to be too freaky, 'cause every command works perfectly and Warren’s left with the weird-out factor of remembering mid-coitus that he might as well be having sex with himself. 'Cause it’s his electric, latex diary, buzzing with life and knowledge and he idly wonders what it’s like to not forget any little lick or squeeze and not be able to block anything out.   
  
April knows his favorite foods, and his morning routine. The shampoo he uses and the cliff notes he cheats off of. The websites he goes to, the movies he watches, the episodes of Star Trek he has memorized word for word, and every little random bit he bothered to type in. Warren feels like Doctor Frankenstein, only crazier and hornier, 'cause in addition to all that information, she knows everything he likes about sex.   
  
And fuck, he uploaded the Kama Sutra into her system one hazy night and she’s fuckin’ teaching him things, too. But it’s the words she says that freak him out and bring him back to reality. Because when he asks her something without thinking that wasn’t pre-made or programmed in, she goes into confused robot mode and states, "Error, error."   


 

* * *

  
  
"What the fuck?"   
  
The computer’s blinking and going shithouse. Years of educating in the field and all you can think to do is whack the innocent monitor. Katrina glides in and tries to calm you, hands on your shoulders.   
  
"Fucking piece of…"   
  
"Shhh, honey, you’ll break it."   
  
Red cheeks and count to ten.   
  
"What were you trying to do?"   
  
Run a program, just a program, just another AI…   
  
"I…I tried to check my email, but…you know AOL."   
  
Lie, lie, lie…   
  
"Oh. But honey, all you have to do is hit control alt delete. Let me look."   
  
You let her sit down and she’s smart, she’s gotten a handle on math now, and you can almost swear she knows.   
  
"Warren, hun, this isn’t AOL."   
  
Nod, nod. Uh…pull the fib card. Five’ll beat a four anyway, unless she’s got a green deck wall…   
  
"I was running a couple of programs too. You know…"   
  
Yeah, she knows.   
  
"Warren?"   
  
Control alt delete, control alt delete…   
  
"Who is April?"   


 

* * *

  
  
It’s way too late and does winter exist in California? Because Jonathan Levinson can swear night’s faded into morning and morning’s become twilight.   
  
He is in a chatroom, like on most Tuesday nights, discussing the week’s episode of Dark Hunter, an indie show about punk-goth vampire hunters (Eight o'clock pacific time on the TNB!). He shrinks the chatbox and logs onto a petition to save the show. Gotta keep those vampire hunters. It’s too original an idea to let slip! Not that Sunnydale isn’t as weird a place sometimes. It makes him wonder.   
  
Like, there’s this popular girl, Buffy. She’s always getting into trouble. He watches her trotting out of Principal Snyder’s office on such a frequent basis that, well, most folks just steer clear of her. Others make fun of her. The girl just makes Jonathan curious. Why is she constantly in trouble? And just as strangely, why did the death count drop when she came to town?   
  
Jonathan finishes signing the petition and clicks the enlarge button on the chatbox. Closing his eyes to adjust his glasses, he opens them to get the distinct message that maybe his two best - no, only - friends are deserting him. Andrew’s blaring purple cursive "G2G” and Warren’s “Uh…sorry, good luck with those vampire hunters” are all that remain as proof they were ever there.   
  
Jonathan sighs and logs onto a Dark Hunter message board instead. 

 

* * *

 

Spike wasn’t soft.   
  
_Smoke curling, flames in the darkness._    
  
He wasn’t soft anymore.   
  
_Hard nails, teeth biting into flesh._    
  
He couldn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean he was soft.   
  
“What is she like?"   
  
He’d rather show than tell. Every story, every anecdote had a quick thrusting finish.   
  
"She’s like rain on metal. Makes your teeth ache and your hair stand on end."   
  
He would sit and explain and you would forget…   
  
"And that’s on her good days."   
  
…why you were standing there listening…   
  
"But really, she’s got this crazy hero streak going. She thinks she’s sooo bloody righteous, and…"   
  
…or lying there daring to breathe after such stories.   
  
"…I love her for it. 'Cause she don’t give up, not a bit, that one."   
  
Of course, his stories needed illustration…   
  
"She’s stubborn, she is. Stubborn like an itch you can’t scratch."   
  
…and his illustrations were remarkably similar…   
  
"But never mind all that. Can’t catch a soul innit, can you?"   
  
…to those in books you had burned long ago.   
  
"Just a piece o’ tin."   
  
Though with all the difference.   
  
"Just remember she’s lightnin’ in a bottle."   
  
Like a song.   
  
"Like some kinda hum you can’t get outta your head no matter how hard you try."   
  
Like a limerick.   
  
"Or one of them dirty rhymes."   
  
Can you program heated flesh and a gleaming smile?   
  
"An’ if so, make it a real good one, mate."   
  
Can you make blonde ocean waves out of polyester strands glued on latex? Green orbs to fall into out of painted plastic?   
  
Spike showed you the pictures and told you the stories, punctuating his pain with his own…illustrations.   
  
Cold flesh and gray eyes boring holes in your skull with their age and you can’t ever look away.   


 

* * *

  
  
Warren works until he can’t think, can’t think of anything else and there she is, perfection with a steely gaze and transcen-fucking-dental smile and not many other expressions besides orgasmic bliss and bitch!kill and fuck, Warren’s in high school again between third and fourth period bells and there she is, Buffy Summers, in all her glory.   
  
He caresses her cheek, smells her right-out-of-the-box hair and resists the urge to hit the ON button. 'Cause knowing what bullshit he programmed her to say bugs him more than knowing what Spike’s going to be doing to her instead of him.   
  
Cough. What Spike will get to do to her instead of him. Him being the one not doing things to her and…   
  
When pronouns get confused beyond confusion, Warren calls Jonathan.   


 

* * *

  
  
They met in first grade. Warren stole the brown crayon. Jonathan told him to give it back. Warren said it didn’t much matter since Willow broke the yellow crayon. They wouldn’t miss the brown one. No one liked brown. It was too plain. Jonathan shot back that Willow would never do anything as horrible as break the yellow crayon and she was too good to do something like that and that it had to be that troublemaker Xander. Warren replied that Willow was just as capable of breaking yellow crayons as anybody else. Jonathan, refusing to be disillusioned, ran away crying.   


* * *

  
  
He didn’t get a very positive answer. In fact, he didn’t get an answer at all. Jonathan was out. Out, of all places. Okay, yeah, they hadn’t talked to each other for months…years? Couldn’t have been years. No, he told Jonathan about Katrina. Called Sparky sobbing. Sparky was sympathetic but deep down likely had a bet going someplace. Warren and Jonathan never liked each other much.   
  
A day later, he got a call back. Jonathan, trying to sound busy and important. Fuck, it was June. What could he possibly have been doing?   
  
Working at an internship. Of course. Get off your ass and play D&D with me.   
  
Rejection. From Jonathan.   
  
Ya know, it was weird, that one point when Warren could’ve sworn he found a swimsuit calendar of the runt in his…ahem…in his roommate’s closet freshman year.   
  
More suppressed memory and shake it off, shake it off, and whadaya know, Sparky’s coming over after all.   
  
Over? Over where? Where is there to go? Dropped out of school and kicked out of Katrina’s. Where else was there?   
  
Mom’s basement.   


* * *

  
  
"You brought him?!"   
  
Meek wave and hey, were there still bottles of Jack Daniels hidden down here when Katrina ran off? No, none, but let’s pretend there were.   
  
Kid’s almost twenty now and yeah, still a kid in your eyes, so don’t look at his lips like that. Again, avoid the lip area. Sick of pink latex served up with the icy taste of cigarettes and cemeteries. Think about dragons, weaponry, and not the past three months, rolling the dice and marking down the score.   
  
Somehow night rolls into day rolling into night with the little white and black cubes and somehow translation is lost and you’re asking the kid how college is. He doesn’t like it and when he comes home his parents gush about his brother Tucker and there’s no 24-hour breakfast place to call home for the night because it got turned into a parking lot.   
  
Sparky leaves for pizza and you reminisce, thinking maybe Dark Hunter isn’t so farfetched and didn’t monkeys attack the high school play when you were a freshman? Truth comes out and yeah, you know a thing or two about vampires having had a close one-on-one experience and maybe if Sparky wasn’t a wuss they could go and do something about it.   
  
Sparky returns and on pressed questioning reveals the swimsuit calendar was in fact a reality, albeit an alternate one, and you hmm and haah back and forth in your brain while watching waaay too many episodes of Batman on loop like the night you thought up April, sprawled on the carpet high on pixie stix for lack of weed watching Weird Science and proclaiming, "Ha, I can do that! Just you watch!” before suggesting one day, for lack of anything better to do, why don’t you three just get together and take over Sunnydale?   


 

* * *

  
  
Waking up, cold sweat, and you can see his eyes again. Sharp blue penetrating, seeing. Then you blink and they’re gone, lost in his drink and thinking about her.   
  
You pore over the photos and the notes. Up 'til dawn and got an hour’s sleep 'cause baby needs to be up and running on the deadline or some demon’ll be playing horseshoes with your ribs.   
  
At least, that’s how the threats are. Of course, there’s the money too, but mostly threats, 'cause a vampire can’t suck up to some college geekboy, no. Gotta work 'im 'til he’s scared, prime to do anything at a glance.   
  
You’re not afraid of him anymore. 'Cause the sadness is just too much to believe he’s serious when he says he’ll kill you. Feed you to his friends? Does he even have friends? Why didn’t he kill me today, you wonder, and there are those eyes again, searching. He’s found something familiar in you. That twitchy nervous craving to be accepted? Was he like that long ago? Or is it the indifference to opinion and strong sense of self? That’s a laugh. Can only be cocky when everyone else is three steps down. No, it’s the bitterness. She left me, God damn it, she doesn’t love me, doesn’t need me anymore. Did she ever?   
  
Get back to work. 

 

* * *

  
  
Warren opens his eyes and sees Willow is crying. The yellow crayon broke because she pressed too hard. It’s broken, two pieces lying on the desk because she tried to draw a big yellow sun. It wasn’t bright enough. She pressed and pressed so it would be big and bright and it snapped in two.   
  
Jonathan can’t believe Willow could ever break the yellow crayon but Warren just laughs. The teacher walks over and Xander takes the pieces and confesses. Warren wonders why he does that. He looks at his gray and brown dog. It’s a drawing of his daddy’s dog Rusty. Rusty died and Daddy told a sobbing Warren that Rusty was dead but not really gone. Nothing is ever really gone, he said. It is still there somewhere. In the ground. In the air. In memory. In hearts.   
  
Daddy left and Mommy told a tearing Warren he was really gone, so he might as well be dead.   
  
Warren looks at Willow’s bright yellow sun and then back at his gray and brown dog.   
  
He presses harder. 


End file.
